Not Entirely Okay
by scarletphlame
Summary: The next morning, everything John needs for about a month has been packed up and placed by the door of the flat. It doesn't alarm Sherlock at all; he's expected this day for as long as he can remember.


AN: Please leave some feedback-whether it's flame, flattery, or concrit-I appreciate it all. I mean, hey, at least my story evoked some emotion from the reader, even if that emotion was 'this totally sucks, go die in a pit'!

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><p>It's been quite clear that Sherlock's not good from the beginning. He knows he's smart, damn it, he knows he's cleverer than all of them and what he's already learned they will never grasp, and yet, for some reason, sadness is the only reaction he has to their anger. Sherlock doesn't <em>try<em> to upset anyone, not really-they just upset him and he bites back.

It's almost a natural reaction by this point, a habit that's stalked him into his adult life. Scotland Yard is a parallel to his years of classrooms and chalkboards, minus the inane prattling forced upon them by babbling idiots who had no idea what they were talking about... and _homework_, what was the point in _that, _going to classes to hear them state the obvious and to go home and repeat what had already been repeated hours prior. It had been infuriating then, and, in a way, it's still infuriating for him to go through the ordeal of mentally traveling back there, like a giant black hole that's sucking everything in, impossible to escape.

Sherlock likes to think he's mastered deleting what he does not need to know-but deleting is entirely different than forgetting is. Forgetting is pushing away everything you don't want to recall. Deleting, on the other hand, is not knowing what it is you need to push away. There are times when he thinks he's done it, when he's erased the significance of something that is startlingly mundane but _feels_ like it should be incredibly important to him, like there's something in his hard drive that's faulty.

That's not to say he's ever been entirely okay. Sherlock has always known that there is something in him, something deep within him that he can't see that others can, something incredibly, _horribly_ wrong with him for him to hurt others the way he does and not know why. It's the only logical explanation. He's always driven away anything that was ever important to him (unintentionally, of course, nobody wants to be told they're _wrong_, nobody wants to be _loathed_) and no matter how hard he thinks about it, no matter how many dozens of scenarios he manages to conjure up, they all nag at him.

Sherlock sometimes thinks that he'd maybe ask if he was capable of asking.

John has always told him that there's a difference between doing something Not Good and _being_ Not Good, yet it's another romanticism that is lost in translation. Technically, if he is able to somehow channel this Not Good thing that he doesn't see in a conversation that hardly lasts longer than three minutes, then it makes him the owner of the Not Good. John's also said that everyone sees the world differently, like whenever someone jogs or runs up the stairs, nobody recognizes the manual labor-until they're doing it themselves, of course. Sherlock loves that John takes the time to explain it to him, but hates the necessity of it.

He checks his the time on his phone, again. John's incredibly late. Either he's down at the pub, or he's found someplace else to stay for the night. He can't help that tiny niggle of worry that forms within his gut. Whenever they have a row, John usually comes back after half an hour or so, once he's had sufficient time for his thoughts to clear, to decide how to best say everything on his mind. Sherlock envies him of that, of being able to say a thousand words in a sentence.

Just as Sherlock has begun to debate ringing John (he'd never actually call, of course, there's never any need and John's always fine), the door to the flat opens and John's hanging up his coat. It's damp, so it's been drizzling outside. John looks tired. There's a high possibility he only come back due to the rain. Sherlock has inconclusive data on whether or not John was planning on returning at all, or if he was heading somewhere, and he's just about to mentally dive into thought about that when John speaks, dashing anything Sherlock had on his mind to pieces.

"Sherlock," John begins, no sign of hesitance in his speech, "we need to talk."

Sherlock's brow furrows. He'll settle for a short response. "We are talking, John."

John merely ignores him, continuing on as if Sherlock had not spoken a word in response, "And you're going to listen to every word I say."

Sherlock bites back a remark and leans further into the chair. A stupid part of his brain thinks that if he presses back into the fabric hard enough, he might fall through the chair and then through the floor and out of the world, away from himself and from John and everything in him that's Not Okay. It's illogical, it's impossible, it's plain _ridiculous_, and, yet, it's appeared in his mind. For some reason that he cannot grasp, this utterly pointless fantasy means something to him, although he isn't quite sure what.

"Very well." He folds his hands neatly, but the action seems too abrupt and it might display his restlessness, so he quickly moves his hands back to rest on the arms of his chair. "Go on." He motions with his right hand, giving a slight nod.

"You upset Lestrade tonight." John's voice is tight. Rehearsed words, then. "I know you don't have the best relationship with the 'Yarders, but Lestrade only wants to help you, and snapping at him the way you did tonight was completely uncalled for."

Sherlock moves out of his chair, stalking towards the window. The streets are quiet tonight. Anyone walking outside wouldn't know what he was feeling right now. He can feel John's eyes burning into his back, and he's glad he doesn't know how John's looking at him. Just the way his face looked when he spoke was unbearable-like he was seeing all the Not Good things in him, everything about him that wasn't right. It makes him feel uncomfortable, as if John's taking away everything that makes him worth something, and all that's left is the side of him that hurts people without meaning to; the side that makes victims cry and strangers loathe him with a passion.

Very suddenly, he doesn't want to be in the same room as John, like he might unintentionally say something that could hurt him. It occurs to him that this is very real, that he could make one mistake and it could mean losing John, watching him walk away from him, our the doors of 221B and out of his life. Sherlock isn't sure which is worse; knowing that he has always been the cause of everything bad that has ever happened, or having to watch the people he's known walk away from him as a result.

Sherlock clears his throat, because he doesn't trust his voice to say the right thing, and he speaks. "It's not like I want to."

John sounds confused. "Want to?"

"I'm loath to repeat myself, John." He moves away from the window and faces John, looking into his eyes in steady glance, like if he moves fast enough John won't know what he's saying.

"You said you don't want to. Don't want to what?"

He thinks that if he says 'upset anyone', it might not sound like it does in his head, so he opts to respond with "Lestrade has aways been on my good side. Anything else I have to say to him is meaningless."

John folds his arms. "You know, you're going to have to open up sooner or later. We can't spend all our time running around in circles and pretending to understand one another."

"Why not?" he snaps, pivoting and glaring at the world outside behind the windows. That's when he does it-that's when he imagines when everything goes wrong, when John eventually can't put up with the Not Good parts of him and decides to move out, when he walks away from Sherlock. His whole future seems bleak and empty without John taking up some space in it. When he looks into the paths and the roads he will eventually come to tread, there is nothing there, nothing at all, just space and matter and a big black hole in the center of it, eating everything up, devouring all the light until there is nothing left but emptiness. He feels like he's falling through space, like he's actually succeeded in passing through to the other side of the world.

His left hand is steadying the weight of his entire body against the window. Sherlock wonders when that happened. He hastily removes his hand from the window, wiping it on his trousers for good measure, as if it will brush away his thoughts. John probably didn't notice.

"I just want to help you," John's saying.

"I don't want your help," Sherlock growls, pushing past John and slamming the door behind him. He falls onto his bed, but sleep does not find him. He feels like he's choking on salt, but the tears do not come and he rolls over, pushing everything from the past hour into the depths of his mind, straining to delete it all.

Sherlock thinks it'd be easier to forget than to remember.

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><p>The next morning, everything John needs for about a month has been packed up and placed by the door of the flat. It doesn't alarm Sherlock at all-he's the one who packed for John, taking care in retrieving everything necessary from his room and neatly packing each item. John should be proud of him, he thinks, as he waits for John to return. He'll be back soon; he obviously left after Sherlock's outburst to spend some time with his current girlfriend (which one it is, he isn't sure, it's probably the gay one or the nose one, or maybe those are the same person), but Sherlock knows he'll be back. He needs his things for the week he'll be away, and at this rate if he's leaving Sherlock for a week, it won't take long for everything of John's to start vanishing from the flat, from his teacups to his jumpers.<p>

The door opens at about seven A.M., knocking over one of the suitcases. John maneuvers himself around the suitcase to get into the flat, an odd look on his face. "What's this?"

"I packed for you." Sherlock refuses to look John in the eye, choosing to stare blankly at the screen of his laptop until the words blur on the screen as he goes cross-eyed.

Something in John's voice lowers. "I'll only be gone for about a week, Sherlock. It's just to keep an eye on Harry-you know that, right?"

"Obviously."

"It doesn't look like that?"

"What are you implying, John?"

"You've packed half of my belongings. I think I'd like to know what you're trying to imply." Sherlock peers at John from behind the top of his computer; his arms are crossed and his expression is nearly unreadable, although he can detect a slight hint of irritation. It's happening earlier than Sherlock predicted. He folds up his laptop and places it on the floor beside his feet.

"You'll thank me for it later."

John swallows hard, visibly processing Sherlock's words. Something dark crosses over his expression. "Sherlock... do you _want_ me to leave?"

Sherlock almost bursts out laughing-because why would he ever want John to leave him if not to save John from the Not Good things in him? He knows he's too selfish to ever try to send John away for his own good; the best he's ever been able to do is try and deduce when people are prepared to walk away from him and give them their space when they do. Sherlock doesn't end up laughing out loud, 'though, because it might come across as a Not Good thing to John.

"Why would I ever want you to leave, John?" He decides that he's said the right thing, or at least what John wants to hear, because John visibly relaxes-it's a slightly odd reaction from someone who's willing to walk away from him, like he's leaving him but he still _cares_ for him. He determines that he's projecting it onto John himself, that nobody as perfect as John could ever look at him and accept him for who he was-the very few good things and the great wealth of bad things. Sherlock is positive that once John remembers what it's like to be happy (without Sherlock) he'll realize how _wrong_ everything was and leave. He adds, patiently, "You're the one who's leaving."

"For a week," John reminds him, something odd-sounding in his voice. "It's only a week, Sherlock, and then I'll come back."

Sherlock nods. "Of course."

John does not look convinced. Instead, a frown spreads across his features. Sherlock wonders what it is he's said now, but John chooses the moment to speak. "Sherlock... whatever it is you're thinking right now, I want you to tell me it, all right? Just... whatever you're feeling right now, just say it."

He scoffs. "Why?"

John's expression becomes fatally serious. "Just say it, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallows, hard. John's quite clearly upset with him-and even though John's decided to leave, maybe there's still time to change his mind, maybe if he just goes along with this one thing, John will stay. "Like sleeping."

"Why?"

Sherlock analyzes John's expression, his movements, and his tone down to the core, until he has stripped away all the data possible. He finds... nothing.

"Sometimes I wish I'll fall asleep and never wake up again," he admits, and then John's entire face crumbles and Sherlock just knows he's said something not good at all. He doesn't know what. This is the thing that's the worst of all-hurting someone he never meant to hurt and not knowing why. He'd never hurt John, not intentionally-but he still does it, and no matter how long he stays with John he'll keep on hurting him and now knowing why. He's about to apologize (although he never would) when John... _does_.

"I'm sorry. I didn't..." Whatever John had on his mind has vanished. "Why, Sherlock?" He sounds hurt. And then Sherlock can't stop it, can't stop what he's going to say next, the words just tumble out of him, and it kills him because it's so easy to say them, it's been so easy to say them all along and he never has, not once in all the times he's meant to.

"One day you'll walk out of the flat and you won't come back because you don't want to, and it'll be my fault. So. It'd be easier to pretend all of it never happened." The words, all of the words-they're in his voice. Sherlock doesn't really know why, but he _does_. He just doesn't want to tell himself the truth.

John moves towards him, and Sherlock feels like jumping backwards, but his feet are rooted to the spot, and John... just wraps his arms around his shoulders and grabs onto him like the world is ending, like they're never going to see each other again (which they probably won't). This thought galvanizes Sherlock into movement, pulling at John like he's the only thing that has ever mattered to him. In a sense, he is.

John decides not to leave that day. Sherlock is okay with that. He's never been okay, and he's not about to start, but for the moment, he thinks he might be okay. If he just has John, this one Okay thing in his life, then he thinks everything might be all right. He still knows the day will come when John leaves, or when he needs to leave John for John's sake. For now, it's easier to forget that day is coming.

Knowing and thinking are entirely different things, after all.


End file.
